


To Catch a Quartermaster

by drelfina, rikacain



Series: Sucks to be Q [4]
Category: BBC Sherlock, James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Multi, Non Consensual, sucks to be Q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 05:02:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drelfina/pseuds/drelfina, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rikacain/pseuds/rikacain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty needs a new helper. That talking paperclip doesn't cut it. Moran is always willing to help out. </p><p>Now they just have to convince their new acquisition he <em>wants</em> to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Catch a Quartermaster

**Author's Note:**

> Explicit non-consensual scene, with non-consensual blood play and knife-play. Readers beware.

Of all things he does not expect, it is a soft touch. 

A finger trails across his brow, tracing lines down his cheek before curving down the strong line of his jaw and settles into a gentle grip on his chin, nudging his face up. Q keeps quiet as fingers skip across the fabric of his blindfold, tugging at the cloth this way and that but all the while ensuring that Q cannot see. He shifts, pulling at the muscles held taut by his arms bound to the chair, and someone tuts. 

"So this is MI6's latest plaything," the person says, his voice lilting and mocking. "You look terribly ordinary." The cloth is yanked away from his face and he blinks into the harsh light of the bulb hanging above his head. "Hello, hello. Do I get a name?"

He looks terribly ordinary too, a small man in a dark suit with dark eyes. Q doesn't recognise him - especially not under what little light he has blinding him. "My name's Terrence," he croaks, throat parched.

"Ah, ah," the man says. "No, wrong answer. You're not Terrence, you're Q. Don't bother pretending otherwise." He taps under Q's eyes, and Q is glad to see that he still has his glasses on, instead of being submerged into the uncomfortable watercolour blur of having myopia. "Don't worry, I'm just curious. See - I'll tell you who I am! Jim Moriarty. Lovely to meet you, cutie-pie."

"Don't call me that," Q lashes out.

"Ahahah!" and Moriarty laughs triumphantly. Q finds it hard to believe that this is the man running a whole criminal organisation, all by himself. "Finally got a-something out of you. Have some bite to you, that's good. Moran'll like you."

Sebastian Moran, Q remembers. Contract killer. He doesn't know whether to be flattered that a mercenary will like him.

"I didn't realise I'm here for a tea party," he says instead.

"That does sound lovely," Moriarty says. "I should do that, actually - but no. Not today. Another time, perhaps." He flips out a phone and begins to type rapidly into the touchscreen. "You see, once upon a time a wizard decided that hey, let's betray the king! - stupid decision, by the way, so he got killed. So the king needs a new wizard."

"And I'm the new wizard?" Q says, rather stupidly.

Moriarty positively beams at him. "Why, yes!" he says. "Knew you were a bright boy after all."

"Well yes, that's why MI6's hired me. Still hiring me, in fact." Q shifts again, his arms really fucking hurts. "Can you find someone else? Please?"

"And manners," Moriarty says approvingly. "Very good. MI6 thinks you died, no worries - the wonders a car crash can do! Your body is mangled beyond recognition. Lovely trick."

"What?"

"Yes," the man crows triumphantly. "You can't go back, pretty boy - so just save me the trouble and just stay, would you? I hate wizard-hunting."

"They'll find out," he tells Moriarty, hating the way the man's face grows even more smug by each shaky words he says. "They will, MI6 is not dumb - "

"But will your superiors care," Moriarty says in return, gleeful. "Just another quartermaster, what a shame - "

"I'm valuable - "

"But dead - "

"And M - "

"Gareth wouldn't care," Moriarty says, "or is it M now? He wouldn't, because - "

And Q realises what Moriarty is about to say, because he finishes, "he's part of your organisation."

"Yes," Moriarty says, a low hiss of an exhale. "Ten points for you, Quartermaster." He walks over to a shadow-hidden door. "Now I realise this is a huge, huge surprise, so I'll give you some time to think over it. Generosity, you see. Moran'll drop by for a visit too, so don't worry about being bored!" He gives a rather energetic wave to a now-despondent Q. "Bye-bye, cutie pie!"

Even as the door swings shut, Q does not respond.

 

* * *

 

He hears the foot steps and for a wild moment, he thinks it's Bond .

Bond, who walks like this, quick and fast, efficient, a clip to his expensive shoes. 

But the hand that touches his jaw from behind is big, rough, and the smell - smoke, cigar smoke - makes Q cough, twist and try to bite. 

It's not Bond .

The man just lets Q's teeth sink into the meat of his palm, the base of his thumb, barely a grunt of reaction. 

Moran. Moran is here, Moran is touching - 

He grinds his teeth down, imagining skin breaking. But he can taste - leather, salt, sweat. Metal, too, the oily sheen of gun oil. 

"Little biting blighter," Moran says, while Q tries not to retch at the taste of skin he most definitely did not want in his mouth, and then there's a hard hand wrenching at his hair, almost the entirety of his scalp, yanking him back so hard he was sure his neck was breaking. 

No such luck. 

His eyesight blurs, and he gasps and then he can't bite. 

"Try me," Q says, trying to grin and failing miserably. He's tied still, to that chair, unable to move. But it must be a good thing, because there's not much a man can do to him while he's bound to a rather solid chair, right? 

"You wouldn't have a choice, little boffin," Moran says, and then he's staring at Moran's face, upside down. Was that a smile? Q didn't know. 

"I've told you, my name's Terr-" 

There's suddenly a knife at his throat, and Q shuts up.

Moran grunts, and then the knife shifts, quick, deft, and slices open his shirt. Q'd protest - he's heard Bond say things like "oy that shirt cost a hundred pounds." or something like that, or say some sort of brand, but Q cannot honestly bring himself to say anything, not with the knife tip so worryingly close to his belly, hovering over his navel - 

Moran's knife shifted, flicked, and then his fly button is gone, tinkling with a metallic clink in the corner of the room. "Hm," Moran says, and goes over to crush it with the heel of his boot.

"What was -" 

"Just to be sure," Moran says. "Who knows what little rats are on your trail, Quartermaster?" he says, and now he's in front of Q, crouching, looking like a dangerous feral dog.

Whatever hope that Q had that some miniscule chance that SOMEONE didn't believe his death, and was looking, died with that. Moran was a professional, and -

"What else are you hiding?" he says, quite, and in the strange, fluorescent light, he looks almost feral, gold-eyed. A wild dog. 

The knife flashes, doesn't touch skin, but Q's holding very very still, because the knife is cutting his fly open - 

_why, why would he do that for, it's not like he can't work a zipper!_

\- and no one is going to risk anything when there's a knife this close to sensitive parts. 

"Pretty," Moran murmurs, and he's definitely not staring at Q's face. 

It's worse, actually. 

No one's stared at Q's genitals before and exclaimed on their prettiness or lack thereof, and Q woud have been happy to continue in that state of affairs. 

He swallows, hard, and tries not to think about how he can feel Moran's gaze like a tangible touch. It makes no sense, it's been disproven, visual appraisal cannot be physically detected. 

But he can feel the tension in the air, his toes curling in his socks and shoes, his fingers tense on the arms of the chair, and Moran's regard. It's slick, it makes his skin prickle, and he has to concentrate on breathing slow and steady. 

Then there's a cold, hard, steely press to his cock, and Q yelps, eyes flying open. When did he close them? He doesn't know. He - 

"What," he says, voice going dry, and it's a miracle it isn't high. "are you doing." 

"Do you know, little boffin," Moran says, "how many men break, if you take a knife to their balls?" 

"I'm not sure I really need to know," Q says, voice not trembling. Thank god. Except oh god there is a knife, the flat of it gleaming, as Moran fucking strokes it along his cock. He can feel his skin shrivel and attempt to curl in. "Didn't seem all that, pertinent." 

"You're the worst of them all, you know," Moran says, conversationally, like he isn't just, stroking his goddamn knife against Q's cock. One wrong breath, and Q would be a eunuch. 

How long does it take to bleed out? Minutes. Seconds. He can't think. 

"How do you figure that?" 

"You send people out, to shoot, to kill." And Moran's voice is silky, like the best sort of whiskey, the way Bond's voice gets when he's seductive, when he's murmuring into his mic, Q in his ear, and oh god, oh god Q doesn't want to think about anything like that. Moran isn't - 

"You press the buttons. And hundreds die," Moran says. "Just. Like. That." 

Suddenly the knife slips sideways, and the point slices at the top of his thigh. Q shrieks, before he realises it's shallow, his cock is fine, it's just a shallow, little slice. Barely a nick. 

Moran's looking at him with amusement, and Q doesn't know who is worse - Moriarty or Moran. 

Moran, Moran's worse, because he's right here, chuckling as Q bleeds, blood trickling down his thigh, a tendril of it curling along his inner thigh, along the crease of his groin, slipping and tickling behind his balls, even as the rest of the blood soaks into his trousers. 

"The worst," Moran repeats. Q's breathing is loud, almost harsh, blood rushing in his ears, and the knife tip is following that trail of blood, within the tight confines of the folds of fabric, along his skin, and Q struggles to stay still. 

The knife is light, almost a caress, a parody of a lover's ticklish touch, a fingernail, except more deadly, and Moran skillfully lifts Q's balls out of the ruins of his pants, his trousers, and Q's clenching his teeth so hard he can hear something crack. 

"Hard to believe a pretty thing like you." Moran says, and he shifts closer, so close, and then before Q can say anything Moran's mouth is engulfing him. 

Q yells, like he's bitten, and jerks, and the knife pricks him, but Moran has control enough it's just a prick. 

Q goes still, his mind abruptly derailing into - onto - god he doesn't know. 

Still. he has to stay still. 

Moran chuckles - a filthy horrible dark vibration around Q's cock, and Q refuses to get hard. _REFUSES._ He wants to pull away, but the ropes hold him still. He can't wriggle, can't squirm, the knife holds him still, a tangible, lethal reminder, and Moran's mouth is hot and slick on him, sliding down.

Even the dull throb of the knife slice on his thigh is nothing, compared to that. He can't, can't think, can't do anything but protest, a hissed _no no no no_ but Moran doesn't give a fuck. 

It's the danger. It's the fact that he's full of adrenaline and nowhere to put it, that he's hard. He tells himself that. He reminds himself of that, but Moran sucks and Q yells and his thoughts scatter again, in the face of danger-pleasure-good-bad, he can't think. He's hard and feels it and knows it's wrong but he can't rationalise it away, can't _think_. 

Then there's fingers, pressing in, behind his balls. 

Q jerks again, and realises the knife is gone. 

But there's teeth, now, on his cock, teeth teasing at tender, sensitive skin, a reminder of where his genitals _are_ and a hysterical part of Q wants to say it's not necessary, he's tied down, he can't go anywhere, but fingers pressing, back, further, and it's too much. Dry. how - 

but not really. Not quite. 

Moran must have gathered his saliva and slicked his fingers, because its not as bad as it could be. Just a finger, pressing in, too-big, too-much, but nerves are nerves and right now his body was overloading in unwanted pleasure.

The pain is unnoticeable, under the assault - perfect, accurate description - Q cries out, shudders, feeling something clench up and shatter in his chest, as Moran sucks hard, presses his finger in and _crooks_ , it jolts him till his world shatters and turns sideways. 

When his vision comes back to normal, his breathing ragged, Moran is sitting back, wiping his knife down, watching him with a smile that was more wolfish, lupine, than human. 

"I did say you were a pretty one," he says. "Maybe the boss will keep you around, after." 

He pats Q's thigh, and makes quick work of the rest of Q's trousers; Q doesn't have it in him to do more than hang his head, in shuddering, quivering shame, and then Moran leaves him naked, surrounded by the tatters of his clothing and dignity.

 

* * *

 

"I see you met Moran," Moriarty says as he enters the room some time after Moran leaves.

His eyes sweep up and down Q's naked body, assessing or appreciating Q cannot tell. He doubts many others could either, should they be put into the same position he is in.

"Well, I hope you were nice to each other," he says cheerfully, and Q's head snapped up in shock. "He should have been - if he weren't, you'd be dead."

"Even with your orders?" Q challenges, even with his voice wavering.

"Even with my orders," Moriarty closes his eyes, smiles. "I'd be most unhappy, of course, but there's always way to make me happy again." He opens his eyes, looking straight at Q - and Q suddenly stiffens. There's something different in the air, something much more tenser.

"Please don't be boring," the man requests, and Q finds the request more terrifying in the way he says it. "People crying and expecting me to let them go are one such example. People who stay silent are another. So this is a little clue, Q," and he laughs, possibly at the rhyme. "Don't be boring, or I'll kill you."

The statement settles heavy, in the air. Q looks warily at Moriarty, who smiles coldly back.

"So, will you work for me," Moriarty says pleasantly.

Q swallows, and thinks of his life. He's dead, one way or another. "No."

"A shame," and the man walks over, his touch soft and gentle on Q's cheek. Q cringes away nonetheless - he doesn't want anyone touching him, especially after Moran, and especially when he's naked and laid bare for all to see. "Let me lay out your options. Say yes now, and I'll treat you like a proper man - I won't touch you without your permission, nor will Moran. You will be comfortable and provided for, as long as you don't betray me."

And suddenly he presses harshly down against Q's cheekbone and Q stifles a cry. "Say no again," Moriarty continues, "and we'd see how many times we can take you in every position imaginable, comfortable or otherwise, until we break you. Until you're nothing more than a toy for me to pull about - and even then, I might actually kill you instead. You'll be a pet, but an awfully boring one."

"Or," Moriarty murmurs, voice dropping low, "we could have you as a traitor to the crown, and assign agents to chase after you. How about 007, Q? I heard you two are rather comfortable with each other. Perhaps comfortable enough to kill."

"Choose."

Q thinks. 

("Hurry, hurry," Moriarty mocks. "Before I change my mind.")

"No," Q says. "No, a thousand times, no."

"Well, well," Moriarty says. "Looks like you're interesting after all."

Q closes his eyes, and waits.

**Author's Note:**

> Our first collaboration! Or at least, Drelfina's first. 
> 
> Evil non-con is Drelfina's doing, the pretty set up and finishing is Rikacain's. :D


End file.
